Mario Vargas Llosa
The pages of a book delimit a closed space, withdrawn from the immediate world. This withdrawal acts as a concentration. An inner light begins to appear, not upon the paper itself, but within the act of reading. And this light illuminates less the objects themselves than the very conditions of perception. It illuminates the senses before illuminating… meaning.
The Moon Child grows up alone. Yet what reflects within him leaves him little rest. Upon his island, constantly, in his own manner, he remains on watch. The highly particular language… too particular… that he acquired from his earliest years scarcely ever leaves him. Very early on, vast lines begun toward infinity upon the shore came to settle… to impose themselves… again and again. Who could say what they are attempting to trap.
— One may fight against abomination; writers, many writers, do it very well, but to what result?
Slowly, the few words he learned — many through habit, sometimes through pleasure, often by force — diminish.
— Today, at the risk of frustrating you somewhat, I am beginning to love those gaps into which entire sections of a memory that no longer concerns me disappear…
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